


Programmed To Receive

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Interpol
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Stripper, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2008-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul Banks is a stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Programmed To Receive

** _nobody believes me when I tell them there's so much to hide_ **

There's a funny story about a lesbian, a nun and a penguin who stumble into a strip club by accident one night. Carlos can't quite remember the punch line, but he's gotten wasted (back in the day, back in the day) on more than one occasion and set up the premise for anyone who wanted to hear – fortunately most of the people he told it to were equally wasted and didn't notice he never actually finished the joke. It's funny, nonetheless.

And so is this:

Guy's car breaks down, guy stumbles into a strip club by accident one night.

Or perhaps it's not so much an accident, as it is he wandered in, sort of, kind of, not so much by mistake, because it's called the Pulsing Pussy and Carlos can think of a few names for strip joints that might sound even less appealing, but not a whole lot, and sure, going into a sleaze joint just for the grossly inappropriate name might only be amusing to him, but since he's the only one here, well.

But also: perhaps the drinks are good.

And also: naked women.

(The bored AA guy going, "Your car will be fixed, tomorrow maybe." Don't hold your breath.)

The club, at least, seems like a better prospect than nursing a beer down at the hotel bar while watching a mediocre singer belt out mediocre eighties pop songs.

(Between somewhere and somewhere else that he wants to be, possibly the worst place to have your car break down. But then there probably is no good place to have his car break down, only while he's blaming the universe for the shitty day he's been having, might as well be melodramatic over this too. The GPRS system says it's no-where he wants to remember, Daniel going, overly calm in that way that he has when he's trying to be soothing but mostly coming across as condescending, "Don't worry. The conference will hold."

And then: "If you would fly, like normal people do, but hey don't let your legal counsel give you-"

"Travel advice? You're going to tell me once more how more people die in car crashes every day than they do in airplanes?"

"Since you mention it-"

"We should just record our conversations about this and then replay them whenever this comes up. It'll save us a lot of energy and time."

"Can I still bill you?"

"Sure.")

** _you treat me like a queen when we go out_ **

The place is – not what he had expected at all. The waitresses are all too pretty for one thing. Bright Hollywood fake teeth matched with smiles good enough to pass for genuine, or stone-faced disregard, if that was your thing. Breasts consistently high and pert and convincingly real, although he's not interested enough to look closer. Something for everyone, it seemed, in this place. He thinks he recognizes Beethoven in the pounding beat that matches the subtle light show, but then it's buried under relatively lulling techno that he doesn't quite like but it's easy enough to enjoy.

Shiny glass tables and even shinier lights reflecting off them, and everything's like a parody of what a strip club should be, down to the strippers that don't quite put on a show, to the art on the walls that he's entirely sure is real and as expensive as the cheap looking ashtrays and the glass tumblers that aren't actually unclean. Like a close approximation of sleaze minus the dirt.

("So I was bored."

"A strip club."

"Yes, but I don't have anywhere else to be."

"It's midnight, Carlos."

"I know you're not asleep, Daniel. Stop jerking off to internet porn."

"Goodnight.")

** _wanna show everyone what our love's about_ **

The bartender says his name is Sam, after Carlos asks. He's friendly but distant, knows that Carlos wants his drinks to be re-filled constantly and doesn't want to make small conversation. Best kind of bartender around. Old fashioned (movie star) kind of good looking; nice hands. He doesn't quite seem like he fits in here, but then again what does Carlos know, other than the questionable wealth of experience gained by being supremely good at not fitting in almost anywhere else. Daniel would probably like him. Carlos makes a note.

Sam pauses, only once, when pouring Carlos another (whiskey, straight up, is his new drink of choice – possibly if he wants to be able to walk back to his hotel room he'll stop sometime soon. Possibly not.) to glance up at the stage. His expression changes into something unfathomable for the briefest of seconds before his eyes flicker back into focus. "Thank you," Carlos says, and turns around on his chair –

Because.

The show is, apparently, about to start.

** _all wrapped up in me whenever there is a crowd_ **

The stage is all minimal lights and dark shadows, waiting, it would seem, for the girl to step out. Long brown hair leaning to blonde, the cut of the suit he appreciates, as he does the lean, sparse lines of the body it covers. The fedora, head bent and he thinks Lena Olin but then she doesn't dance, not so much, just walks, barely a strut in her step and barely acknowledging anyone watching her at all, little self-contained universe and Christ, Carlos thinks, when she slides the jacket off her shoulders, lets it fall carelessly to the ground. Christ.

He still can't quite see her face. Won't, because now she's on her knees, head bent and shadowed. She slides her thumb inside the edge of her pants and toys with her belt. Decides she wants to unbutton her shirt instead, before she slips her shoes off. Then the pants, and it's not overtly sexual, she just unbuckles the belt and slips them off, but it feels like he's watching someone in the apartment across the street take their clothes off, illicit and wrong and the girl that lived next door to him used to do just that, strip naked without closing her window – summer nights during high school he'd watch her with binoculars, everything slick and sick and shameful, underneath it all, but he never could stop, not with the way his pulse would skitter, not with the way she made him shake. (He heard, later on, she married a computer programmer and moved to LA, had four children and a nose job. He doesn't remember her face.)

But back to this girl, as she stands there, taps a little drum beat with her fingers on her thighs, and Carlos can't even remember at one point, that the music has changed, gradually slowed and broken down. She lifts the hat, briefly, lets her head fall back as she shakes her hair out, barely looks at the audience, anyone, and for the first time she smiles, just a little.

And then it's over, and she's gone.

("So remember when my car broke down?"

"Which time?"

"The last time. No, wait. Hrm."

"Carlos?"

"I met this girl."

"Oh?"

"Nothing.")

** _but when no-one's around_ **

Luck, purely. He spots a flash of blonde hair and follows, on impulse. Out into the alley, where it's cold as fuck but she's there, bundled up in a jacket and smoking. Carlos tries to look as harmless as he possibly can (I'm not here because I want to fuck you, I swear. I lie.) as she eyes him warily - big baby blues, freckles – the face is a surprise, but not a bad one.

"Could I?"

"Sure." She hands him a packet and of course it would be menthols. He tries not to grimace when he lights up, shifts his attention to the heavy rings on her fingers, the long graceful hand that's busy brushing her hair across her face. Effectively dismissing him, but he's never been anything but not persistent. Starts rambling, what an ex used to call pretentious gibberish, but when he pointed out correctly that she'd slept with him anyway, she'd laughed and replied that it was endearing. "Besides, I liked the way you dressed." Possibly why he'd married the next one and not her: she understood him too well.

But he's always known it worked. Possibly not on this girl, although the amused, tolerant glances she keeps shooting him seem promising at least. (He manages to talk about how much he enjoyed the show she put on without mentioning any erogenous zones whatsover, and that makes her smile.) Finally, he just says, "I suppose you must get this a lot."

"Not really," she shrugs.

"I want to-"

"Joey. Ask for a private room." She jerks her thumb in the direction of the door. Carlos nods his head (relatively well, that went.) His hand's on the handle and he's going back in when she continues offhandedly, "Tell him you want Paul."

"Your stage name is Paul?"

"No," she replies, and stubs the cigarette out with one polished black boot.

 

_if they could only see you like I do_

The VIP room: like the rest of the club. (he's told, politely, the privilege is given to look, but not touch.)

There's time to think, or least try his best not to, about what he's doing here. The utter cliché. But since the only thing he has waiting for him is a hotel bed and bad cable.

Fuck it.

** _did i ever do anything that was this cruel to you?_ **

Ten minutes (forever, every man with a hard-on knows it's forever):

Paul strolls in, hat back on head, clothes fully on. Carlos leans back on the couch and spreads his hands out against it. (the way they do, he knows.)

"Spin," he says, or commands, but his throat is dry and he doesn't comment when she gives an deliberately exaggerated spin, twirls around like a slightly broken toy ballerina on top of a jewelry box.

Her face is still obscured by the hat, but he can't bring himself to ask her to take it off. She's got a little smile on her face, corners of her lips turned up as if she's privy to some secret Carlos can't possibly be worthy of knowing. When she touches the brow of the fedora with a finger and slides it back at forth Carlos reaches out, but she says, mildly admonishing, "No touching."

So he goes,

Hoarsely:

"then you fucking come here,"

She does, but slow. Puts her leg up on the table. The hem of her pants ride up when she leans down, and he can see the pale curve of her ankle before she kneels with both knees on the glass, hands primly (for the moment) in her lap, and Carlos has to clench his fists just to stop himself from touching her.

"Clothes," he says instead.

Or "move"

Or "here, now"

Or "fuck"

\- Or "please"

but he doesn't say please, he's sure of that at least, but then she's in his lap, and he doesn't care what he said anymore. (what did he say?)

** _there's no kindness in your eyes_ **

and her long legs are pressed against the side of his hips, and she doesn't even move much, she just shrugs herself out of the jacket and studiously works on the buttons of the shirt, taking her time as if she's a schoolgirl at home getting undressed instead of in Carlos's lap, but then every little movement she makes, every inadvertent shift, and he's so hard and she doesn't seem to notice, even.

"You could uh, let me help you," he says, but she goes, "No, I have it," and then, finally, the shirt's undone, but at this point he doesn't just want to look anymore, and she seems to know that (she's played this game a while now), and so she puts her hands on his, guides his fingers to her breast, and it's just a touch before she snaps his wrist back into place, her grip surprisingly strong.

(Distantly, he knows: he's kind of crazy losing it here - he's not exactly used to having women in his lap who are still pretty much saying no, and he's fucked a lot of girls, girls are easy when you have money (no it's true) and a certain notoriety, but this is territory he hasn't had to tread in a long time, this is high school and slick, beautiful, unattainable girls, and then it's exactly not like that either, because she's sliding off his lap now, slow, easy friction and her hands are on his thighs, just following her down until she's between his knees, looking up at him, hooded baby blues under the rim of her hat.)

And he reaches out to remove it before he can stop himself, but she doesn't say anything when he tosses it to the side, just shakes her hair out, drops her head until it falls over her eyes.

Her hands are still on his thighs, she moves them up now, lightly touches his crotch, and it's all Carlos can do not to buck, because he doesn't do that, and not fucking here, but her smile comes back anyway, tiny smirk that disappears as soon as he tries to push the hair out of her face. Then she leans back and frowns, as if it confused her that he would dare.

But then Carlos would, only this is a game she can stop, so he lifts his hands away, universal gesture of "I give", and "don't." just don't. But she doesn't seem to acknowledge it, just goes back to lightly touching his thighs, feather light and barely there, every single place making him burn. He knows the rules now (learning), but he can lean forward.

"Stand up," he says.

Stand the fuck up.

"I want to see you."

He's not even sure she'll comply, at this point he's entirely uncertain as to whether he's paying for something or just getting proverbially fucked in all the wrong ways, but then again he can't imagine wanting to be any place else right now, so maybe he is paying for something. For this girl to stand up, maybe, body lines hard and as unreadable as her face. He nods his head and she reaches for her belt (it's a man's belt, he notices distractedly). The pants slide down her hips as easily as they did the first time around, and she steps delicately out of them.

** _the way you look at me is just not right_ **

\- and he hadn't expected her to be naked (didn't they all do show first?) but she is, and he can't speak for a moment, but when he can he just says, "Baby," and she's in his lap again. She stretches a little before she wraps her arms loosely around his neck, all casual like. Her cheek brushes briefly against his, her fingers in his hair, messing everything up, and except for where she's touching his hair and where her skin accidentally touches his face he can't feel her at all, and he fucking wants her so bad, only she's not, she isn't even really looking at him, just her thumbs digging into the back of his neck and her lips open in a soft sigh, and he would like to go down on her, maybe. Lay her down on that slick shiny table below that (typical) mirrored ceiling and slide until he ends up between her thighs. Feel her come, against his lips, all sticky lush unbearable heat.

** _are you scared to let them know it's you?_ **

He murmurs, dazedly, "I want you. I want to fuck you." And she'd been rocking slowly on top of him, building up a slow, steady burn, but now she stops.

Says, "Not part of the deal. Sorry," but not unkindly. Just tolerant, maybe. Maybe more than that.

"So make it part of the deal," and he can ask, asking's easy. If not now, later, if not here, somewhere else. But she eyes him speculatively, and then she shrugs.

"Sorry," she says. "You know how it is."

"No, I kind of don't." He lets his head fall back down onto the couch, says, "Jesus Christ fuck," because the whole time she's been softly so softly rocking against him and this is what desperation feels like, then. Strange, it's been so long he'd forgotten.

But then he snaps himself back up, narrows his eyes just a little, at her. "Too bad, baby. I bet you'd be such a sweet, hot fuck."

** _so when this goes down I'm the one who will be blamed_ **

There's a signal, probably. They don't come until you call. He can push. His palm on her chest, flat and spread wide, he feels her shiver (his wedding ring cold to the touch), and she's breathing ever slightly so heavily now, lost interest in rocking, just watches him slide his hand down across her belly, she's sweat and silk and muscles clenched tight. "Yeah. I bet you would," he continues casually. "I bet I'd eat you out and you'd moan, just for me."

** _you plan is working so you can just walk away_ **

"Paul," he says, and her spine snaps straight, and she doesn't move.

And maybe at this point Carlos can convince himself that she wants him, or at least will let him (same difference?), but now she's stopped staring at him like a rabbit in the headlights, she blinks and the hardening is subtle, but it's there, distancing herself from him until they're miles apart, until he forgets how long it was that she'd been open, possibly a second, possibly not even that at all. "I'll," and she starts rocking again, unbearable and amazing, and when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in she doesn't stop, just melts and he buries his fingers in her hair, too fucking soft silk, and of the list of things he doesn't want, making a mess like this is about at the top of it (not that his wife would care, or perhaps she would, one never knew), but it's a bit too late for that now, probably.

Definitely.

** _baby your secret's safe_ **

On the way out of the club he sees her, leaning against the bar as Sam pours her a drink. The guy leans down, whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh and shake her blonde head. Carlos watches her for a while, trading easy, familiar conversation that he can't make out but gets nonetheless.

** _did i ever tell you?_ **

He controls himself when they pass him the bill for the car (it was worth it), tips the mechanic generously – wonders if his wife would ask about the bill that he racked up, but she rarely asks that kind of question. Keeps up appearances real well, even to herself. But Paul's fingers, ghosting across his pants, strange freckled little robot girl and he has to blink, shake his head until that particular image fades away), and the mechanic smirks at him, but he's been heading in that direction since Carlos first walked up and again, he's used to it and he doesn't care. "Thanks," he says, and smiles, and means, _Fuck you._

Back on the road, he rolls down the windows and cranks up the stereo.

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes by Hilary Duff - The Stranger


End file.
